2013.07.12 - Fire Sale
Desperate times, and all that. Domino's not out of China yet. Nick Fury is seeing to that, personally. To make matters worse, things are going to get a whole lot more bloody before they get any better. Until her next operation goes underway she remains adrift, spending most of her time and energy moving about and trying to not get caught. Still, things could be worse. Yesterday alone she scored herself a slightly used SMG, then a fancy new Ducati sport bike. With time to burn and some new resources to her name (including cash, don't ask where it came from,) she does what anyone in her situation would probably end up doing at some point or another. Rearming. Her reputation may not be so stellar in the Chinese underground but when people start talking money personal opinions tend to fade into the background fairly quickly. That she's about to do some illegal business with some very, very bad people doesn't bother her any. They have what she wants and she has what they want. So long as everyone can play nicely for an hour or two then everyone gets to leave happy. It's the start of a new day, a clear hour away from sunrise. The location is a run-down warehouse alongside a decommissioned dock, abandoned and forgotten about when international shipping operations relocated to the primary nexus of China's tradeport. It's one of many such forgotten locations, overgrown and barely contained within rusting chain-link fences and razorwire. Not good places to go even under the best of circumstances. It's the perfect place for an arms deal to go down. They even brought in a translator, Mandarin is not one of Domino's known languages. While Frank doesn't have the burdon of a time table on his list of problems, he does still need to keep himself stocked. Somehow, China has proved to be a rather confusing city when it comes to sequential order in the way all these events play out, but he really isn't a chronologist so it matters very little in the end. What does matter is that he's a couple thousand dollars richer, thanks to a suitcase full of chinese dollars found in the basement with those girls, and in need of new weaponry. He's got the weapons he scrounged from the laundry mat, sure... but for what he's planning? He'll be needing a sniper rifle. A big one. He doesn't have the contacts in China that he does in America, but the ones he's picked up along the way pointed him to 'another' weapon deal being conducted in an abandoned dock in the former trade hub of Shanghai. Boosting a car was no problem, so he pulls up a mile from the 'meet' and humps it on foot. Not wearing his trench coat, but still sporting that body armor. The skull is painted on it in Triad blood. It's more of a message than convenience. So far, it's kept people out of his way. Out here, privacy is rarely a concern. There's a few nondescript vehicles parked in a semi-circle, each with trunks, hatches, and doors open to expose a mobile market full of some of the finest killing machines available. There's even a couple of folding tables set out with some of the more attractive pieces on display, including an anti-materiel rifle. Admittedly, most of the weapons are haphazardly copied from other, more reliable designs. The best offerings are from other countries altogether. Domestic ordnance tends to leave something to be desired, but it's also cheap and disposable. The question, then, is whether Domino wants to pay extra for proper hardware or shell out half the price for 'use once then discard' implements. For a woman with expensive tastes, it's not an easy decision to make. Besides that, her usual battle rifle is starting to feel a tad long in the tooth. Why stick with a decades old design when they've come out with newer, better devices for war? The warehouse is silent beyond the occasional sounds of bolts being cycled, magazines being manipulated, and the occasional snap of a trigger pull being tested. There's four arms dealers, twice as many guards, and only one buyer. Seems like someone has quite a bit of cash on hand to throw around. The arrival of a blood-painted man in full armor hasn't yet been noticed, providing him with options. Storm the front or waltz in and say hello? The price of bullets is always a better deal than the price of what fires them. Frank makes it to the warehouse with ease. He may be getting up in age, but he can still run for three miles up hill in freezing weather before his hands even start to shake. It's the price he pays, honestly. There's very little outside of staying in shape and doing what he does.. When he reaches the outer chainlink, he uses a simple pair of bolt cutters to clear a path for himself and slips in quietly with his hand closing around the grip of one of the two silenced HK45s in holsters in the small of his back. Guards patroling the peremeter... Anyone with the kind of weapons these guys are selling are professional. Probably Russian. Most likely ex-KGB. His calculating eyes take stoke of the handful of guards situated around the outter ring of the building with his pistol coming up to rest atop the conrete guard rail he's taking position behind. 'One. Two... three.' At least. And probably a sniper on the roof. Difficult to see in those hours right before dawn, the darkest part of the night. Also means he's difficult to see. Rushing across the open court yard on feet that are use to running without making an over abundance of sound. One of the guards rounds the corner just as Frank hits it, knife in a reverse grip in his left hand, pistol held up close to it in the right... Listen for the footsteps, wait... attack. The Knife comes around, stabs in the side of the guards throat, locking his neck between his gunhand and knife hand so the Punisher can lower him to the ground quietly and still keep a defensive weapon pointed out into the yard. Money may speak volumes for sales but it still doesn't stop the clock. One of the men inside the warehouse glances at his watch and breathes out a sigh. Everyone inside is still oblivious to the sting happening just outside of the building. To the sigh Domino's shoulders hang, looking up at the man in question with a Type 88 machine gun in her hands. Compared to her size it looks ridiculously large, and probably weighs a quarter of what she does without being loaded. "Hey. You can't rush art." With the frown that follows the translator, quietly leans closer, whispering the words into the other's ear. His scowl increases an instant later but he holds any further thoughts for the moment. Dom knows she's on the clock. There's a lot of options here and she's still not one hundred percent sure of what Fury has in mind to throw her into the middle of. A machine gun might be just the ticket, but then she runs into other problems. Transportation, concealment. There's only so much that she can take back with her on an Italian motorcycle. Something belt-fed is always a joy to use but not so much fun to lug about or find a permanent home for. Still. She keeps an eye on it as she sets it back onto the table. There's a box of rounds next to it, already on the belt. Ready to go. These boys must be confident. In a few seconds that knowledge is going to prove most useful. There's another killer amongst them, one who is drawing ever closer. Frank doesn't just leave a dead guy laying where any Tom or Dick could find him on their patroling, but he doesn't have the luxury of time anymore. Not now that he's pushed play on his operation. So he drags the guard by his tactical vest around the corner of a large piece of grown over loading equipment closer to the warehouse. His pistol always held out, scanning around corner or ahead for the possibility that someone might inadvertantly start the fireworks too early. Crouched, he glances at the face of his watch and nods, then gets moving. Running in a low crouch towards the side of the building facing away from the water. They always put the lights on that side, ease of loading, so while it wont be easy to get inside, it will be easier to get inside unseen... and that's exactly what the Punisher wants. His pistol goes back into a holster and he scrambles up a drainpipe to the roof of the building. Mere seconds away from being spotted when another guard comes around corner to investigate the back of the warehouse. 'Clear sector two.' Definitely Russians. Paramilitary. They've always got the big guns. Frank hangs on the edge of the building with his feet turned outward so the hard edge of his boots can catch a bit of untwisted screw and peeks up onto the roof. Unsurprised to see the watch staring down the scope of a M14 combat rifle. Both feet push and Frank rolls up to a low crouch, reaching for the garrote (or a piece of wire duct taped between two sawed off six inch lengths of table leg) and whips the wire around the man's neck twist, pushes his knee up into his back and turns him down onto the ground face first. It's all about leverage and with enough of it... the man dies in seconds. Right place, right time. It's the story of Domino's life. The last few days have been wearing away at her enough that she pauses from her shopping excursion to rub at her eyes then lean her head back to work some of the tension out of her shoulders. That's the moment that she notices something isn't right. Through a grimy skylight she can see a shift in the shadows. A flash of someone's foot. It's not the sort of way a person moves unless something is wrong, and judging by the complete lack of sound from the sniper having tripped himself up... He must have had a little help. (Time to make a decision, Domino. Either make your purchase and run or play the odds and go for a fire sale.) Odds of surviving an all-out arms deal disaster: 1 in 22,381. That works for her. Time to stall. "You know what the problem is with arms deals?" she suddenly asks one of the sellers, seamlessly switching over to Russian. Yeah, she noticed as well. "The best merchandise isn't what's on the table, it's what everyone pushing this shit carries." Pushing her claim she motions toward a nearby guard, who happens to have a very nice cut-down Swiss assault rifle partly concealed on his person. "How much for that one?" (Enjoy the free distraction up there, buddy. Don't disappoint me.) Frank takes the M14 on his way to one of the far skylights, but does manage a glance down through the one he was near at the gathering below. All the lights set up so Domino can see what her money brought her here to buy? He still doesn't believe in coincidences... but this is as close as it gets. It really only matters in the end and how the two of them have to settle things once they clean the table. While he still wouldn't trust her further than he can throw her, it doesn't appear she's said she saw him either. So that's something... and now all the Russians inside are looking anywhere but up. Which is a good thing because the Punisher was pushing open one of those windows further down and slipping in onto a rafter beam in a crouch. Not much space up there, but there's enough and he's got a lean on to help steady his hand. The M14 comes up and he stares down the scope at one of the heavier armed guards nearer the door... and squeezes the trigger. The muzzle break is a bright flash in the darkness, but the report is like thunder a thunder strike in the empty warehouse. Rattling metal sheeting. The man's head just 'disappears' in a spray of blood. Then another who saw where the shot came from and was readying his weapon on that corner. And another closer to Domino, who reached for his weapon, dropping the fully loaded assault rifle right at her feet. Here's hoping she's not actually a Russian spy. Timing. Now that Domino knows someone's up there she can listen for him on the sly. She can tell that the little piece of debris filtering through the lights is rust powder coming from beneath his boots. She can almost count down the seconds before the first pull of the trigger... Knowing that an armed and unknown entity is up there raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Maybe she isn't the target now, but how much longer until she is? (Best enjoy the ride while you can, girl. In three, two, one--) She's just getting her response about the wares when the rifle goes off like a pair of cupped hands slamming down around the ears. In a flash she catches the dropped rifle with the toe of her boot, kicking it up into her hands as she vaults clear over the table. It's not a machine gun but it's loaded and ready to go, she can work with that. Taking cover between a van and a sedan she picks a starting point and dumps the magazine, thirty caliber shots hammering out of the shortened barrel and shredding men and building alike. Twenty rounds come and go in a moment's time, leaving that many more dead and that much more gore painting the warehouse's interior in a vivid crimson sheen. That's it, her cover's over and done with. Next move's on the ceiling lurker. In the meantime she has a chaingun to prep. Time. Everyting comes down to time in the end. For instance, the guards were caught off guard when Frank started taking them out from the rafter and it was further done when Domino emptied a clip into a group of them, but it was only a matter of time before their training took over. The group that remains have worked together for years, at least as far back as Afganistan so they've got a pretty solid grasp of their fighting tactics. Two of them drop into cover on the otherside of the Sedan where Domino is hiding, but they're not shooting at her. Their weapons are pointed up into the rafters where the flashing M14 killed several of their brothers in arms. It's the other two that shoot at Domino. Crouching down behind the supply crates they brought in weapons and using it for cover while she prepares that chaingun. Taking the occational pot shot at her from around the side, leaning so that they've got a sight but not so far as to open themselves up to be splattered from above. Frank moves around pillars after dropping the M14, swinging out and back in towards a tall stack of boxes upon which he can jump. It is not easy to dodge machine gun fire while traversing on metal beams no wider than a foot... He lands and rolls right off the side, dropping another four feet onto bending knees, going forward over his shoulder to absorb the shock of the fall and spinning out with a pair of HK45s reporting around the corner in a dash to better cover in the form of one of the concrete pillars. The guards body armor eats most of his rounds. It isn't the heavy stuff, worn beneath business suits it really couldn't be, but it serves. Hurts, but it keeps them from taking a death wound. One gun slips away into the holster on his back, the other releases it's clip so another can be slipped in from the boddace worn around the outside of his own tactical, blood painted armor. Receiver pulled to load the weapon... dust flying all around him as they rattle off bullets at him. Maybe they expect to scare him? It isn't working. (Why do these things always seem to happen to you, again?) One of the sideview mirrors explodes above Domino's head, showering her with tiny glass fragments while she feeds the belt through the weapon's receiver. It's when she turns in just the right way that agony shoots through her side from where she had soaked the last bullet aimed her way. It's when she recoils from the painful reminder that the bullet which would have cut through something vital instead splits a fresh line through her armored skin, the flash of white skin quickly turning pink from irritation and red from blood. One injury spares her from another more lethal one. (Look on the bright side. With a machine gun--) Ka-CHAK! (--you're never outgunned.) All targets have identified their locations. The new guy (Christ, it's him again, isn't it,) has taken cover in another corner of the warehouse. First priority goes to the pair that are shooting at her. They're about to have a really bad morning. Once more the warehouse is filled with the rhythmic concussive drive of a belt-fed automatic, slamming jacketed metal into the air with the steady pulse of a freight train at full throttle. Wooden crates are ripped to splinters, the bullets passing clean through the containers, the packing materials, the hardware tucked within, the men and their light armor beyond, and the corrugated metal wall of the warehouse dozens of feet behind them. In another breath Dom turns the sights toward the sedan beside her and lights up the muzzle once more, shell casings flying out of the carbon-stained ejection port as the once nice car gets torn to pieces. And the next car beside it. By now every guard left posted outside would be running like hell toward the warehouse. Where there's one there's a dozen. That's an unmistakable sound, the 'Ka-chak' of a belt fed LMG. Once someone's heard it, they never forget it, but the sound of it rattling off bullets is even more familiar. The screams cut short when high volocity rounds pound through crates, metal, people and concrete. Splattering the ground with everything from bits of flesh to piss and everything inbetween. Frank cranes his head and drops down into a lower crouch when the gun sweeps the warehouse, tearing through metal as it hits one car and eats holes in the side of the van they transported the crates in. When the dust settles and the sound of feet outside the bullet riddled double doors comes to a stop, the Punisher is staring around the corner of his pillar at the carnage begotten by Domino and her new 'toy'. "I think you missed a spot." It isn't a joke. Not in the traditional sense... but when someone goes overkill on that scale, it 'begs' something being said. His pistol goes into the empty holster on his back in favor of the anti-material rifle. Picking it up in both hands and slinging it over his shoulder on his way to a torn up husk that use to be an engine block where he slaps it down on the extended tripod and leans forward against the stock. At this range, he wouldn't even have to use the scope. The bullet passing by someone would blow them in half... And he's got it pointed right at the double doors. The Russians on the other side don't get the chance to see what happened inside. The doors, made of sheet metal, are no match for the .50 cal round pounding through it like a jackhammer... Tearing them off their rusted brackets and throwing the whole group several feet back with parts of their body hanging off. This thing can hit a tank and pull everything inside out through the exit hole at several yards. At sixty feet, it's basically a tornado in a bullet. Thin, white tendrils of smoke drift away from the muzzle of the heavy automatic filling Domino's hands, watching as (sure enough) the Punisher, in a fresh coat of red, comes out of hiding. With his comment she responds in the first way that comes to mind. She follows him with the sights of her LMG. "I can fix that," she replies in a level tone. Not a threat so much as a statement of fact. Yet, once again she doesn't take the shot. The enemy of her enemy isn't her friend so much as another possible target, or another usable resource. Twice now it's worked in her favor. Why not have another roll of the dice? Besides, he's not going for the AMR because of her. As he relocates the business end of that cannon all she does is stand by and watch. And grin. She knows what one of those can do. It's going to be a fun show. Seconds later the doors are laid to waste, the warehouse open to the early morning breeze. Anything up to and including a Tyrannosaurus will be handled by the fifty. For everything in between, including cover fire, she's still got a hundred-odd rounds left to go. She knows The Punisher by reputation. The man's scary, ruthless, heartless, and completely without emotion. Here she is, joining the massacre alongside him. And it's fun. In very short order no sane person wants to go anywhere near the front entrance. The remaining belt gets slung over her shoulder as she comes around the bullet-riddled row of vehicles, covering one of the side entrances with so much bravado that there's barely a door left by the time she's done. "Come on, bring it! I've got all day, assholes!" So much for an honest transaction for goods provided. Fire sale it is. The entire walk to the front of the car, Frank is watching Domino follow him with the sights of her LMG. He doesn't look terribly afraid, but maybe he's just really good at covering it with his bland, emotionless expression. When the doors fly off, he leaves the gun right where it is and instead grabs a grenade launcher from the scattered hardware on the ground. "You take left, I'll take right." He says to Domino, walking towards the right side of the building, launching little explosive presents at the wall to tear a hole through the sheet metal and tossing the launcher down in favor of his pistol. Walking with a purpose, both hands steadying the aim of his weapon as he creeps towards the huddled masses on the otherside snapping off shots at the downed Russians who were blown back by the concussive force of a 40x46mm grenade. Those who have the wherewither to actually look at him take a bullet in their foreheads. His eyes stare intently at the hole he's created in the warehouse. A warehouse that is groaning in twisted metal anger all around them, it should be noted. Aiming's all fine and good but Domino doesn't have that kind of time right now. She can clear an area of hostiles without having to see them, just lay on the trigger and sweep from one direction to the other. It's not her gun, it's not her ammo. There's nothing here that she's worried about saving. So, she happily cooks the barrel and sends every last round down the bore until the LMG, barrel way too hot to touch, lands on the hardened floor amidst a sea of digested brass. "God I love doing that," she mutters, almost sounding out of breath. She can barely hear herself think anymore, though an observant eye tells her that most everyone against them, if not everyone, had been put down. Her guard will remain up, it hasn't dropped since she woke up in this country, but perhaps the shooting can take a fifteen minute intermission. Rubbing at one of her ears while the other hand absently plucks a Glock 18 with an extended magazine from one of the downed men, she calls out "So what's your deal? I know you're not here for me. Am I just lucky enough to have become absorbed into your social circle this week?" (We should probably get out of here soon. Like, real soon. Like, 'grab your shit and go for your bike' soon.) Frank walks out into the open as causally as he likes, staring down the long court yard where a single Russian is running for the hills instead of sticking around to slug it out after the bullets have settled. His gun comes up as he turns, fires, and drops the man and he puts another into one groaning at his feet as an after thought. The pistols slip back into the holsters on his back as he comes back in, fingers touching to a place on his right flank that come back bloody and now that he's not moving around it's clear that he's not without his share of bad luck. His armor is spattered with little white tents where small arms fire hit the plating and busted up the kevlar coating and there's blood running the entire length of his left arm from a dime sized hole in his tricep. Yet there he is with a completely disinterested expression on his face pulling one of those light weight duffles and snapping it open from its compartmentalized form into something he can start packing full of weapons. Assault rifles, shotguns, grenades and ammo. He doesn't bother searching the goons because there's enough guns spread out on the ground for him to clean China... or at least put enough of a dent in it that they would step out of his way when he walks down the street. "Looking for someone." He says without explaining much more than that, eyes seeming to always be on her when she looks at him. Clearly, he's not bring his guard down. "Take whatever you want. I don't think they'll care." As he stands, slides the bags strap over his shoulder and walks towards the anti-material rifle still sitting on the hood of the destroyed engine block. "Way ahead of ya, Boyscout," Domino replies with the same level of nonchalance. She has to be slightly more selective in what's coming home with her, stuffing the machine pistol into her combat webbing then retrieving and slinging the cut-down Swiss rifle. Finding extra ammo for most everything present is not a problem. "Well, I can tell that whomever you've got your sights on is going to have one messed up week. Hate to be in his shoes." It's followed with a semi-thoughtful pause, the albino sweeping her pale-eyed stare back his way once more. She's not expecting him to part with any information on his mission, or duty, or whatever the hell he chooses to think of it as. It's more that she's trying to better understand the legend behind the man. It's also a little curious how they haven't brushed shoulders any sooner, and in China of all places. (The stoic attitude gets to be a bore, but he's still exciting where it counts.) "Appreciate the preferred customer discount, these guys were gearing up to rip me off something heavy." Desperate times, more on her part than theirs. She hates it when the other guy gets to set the price. (Ooo, frag grenades. Always a crowd pleaser.) The rifle is picked up with one hand along the extended titanium barrel and slung across his shoulder, held in place with one blood left arm. Stepping over dead russian and piles of spent ammunition cartrages, "Yes he is." Frank says without nodding or glancing away a vehicle that looks mostly intact outside in the court yard. Without anything resembling a goodbye, he starts for the double doors but stops a few steps before he's walking out of the blown off portal out into the docks proper. Glancing back over his shoulder at her, "There's a car about a mile down the road." Jutting his chin out towards the horizon where the sun has started to crest and shine brilliant orange into the China sky. "Suitcase in the trunk has thirty thousand dollars and a number to a guy who does passports in Bangkok. Tell him Mr. Nobody sent you." Then he's walking again, out into the open and towards the black SUV these sorts just love to drive around in. "See you around, Domino." Clearly, he's done his homework too. Not difficult to find out a world class mercenary with a very distinctive appearance, afterall. There's a little of that mystery unraveled, anyway. It's always nice to know that not everyone out there wants to see Domino's head severed from her shoulders. Here, the Punisher himself is giving her access to weapons, cash, a vehicle, and the contact info of someone that works the passport business. Her! That 'not very nice' merc that occasionally gets hit upside the head by her own conscience. Finally she's getting paid for her time again. (Screw you, Fury.) The offer and the use of her name brings a smirk to blackened lips, watching as the blood-stained killer takes his leave. Maybe her luck is starting to look up again, after all. "Do svidanya." Category:Log